


she could almost be a knight

by renaissance



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, F/M, Gen, Inspired by Cinderella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne of Tarth, a girl who has dreamt of being a knight, has one chance to prove herself in a tourney. Ser Jaime Lannister has one tourney before he must retire to his ancestral home and take up the mantle of heir to his family fortune. But maybe there's a way for both of them to stop this fight from being their last...</p><p> </p><p>Inspired by and loosely based on the fairytale of Cinderella, for the J/B Halloween Fairytale Collection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	she could almost be a knight

**Author's Note:**

> (With apologies to SigilBroken because I gave this fic its title several months ago and then you posted something with the same name but I couldn't bring myself/wasn't creative enough to change it...)
> 
> Ok so it's after 1am on the day after Halloween (in my timezone), oops! Anyway this is why I haven't been working on Before Destruction, haha. Between this and uni, I've had no time. But I've managed to make my contribution to this collection! I am so flattered to have been asked to participate in this, and I want to give my thanks to Rellie and H3L for inviting me and setting the whole thing up. You guys are amazing :'D
> 
> This is unbeta'd, so any mistakes are my own fault. See, I was going to get two people to beta it, but it turns out that I'm a loser who finishes things off at the last minute. Also this is very AU so you're just going to have to suspend a lot of disbelief.
> 
> But enough talk! Hope you enjoy this story! :D

The heat of an unforgiving Summer sun had taken King’s Landing by surprise, but as such the city’s residents were prepared for the white ravens that arrived from the Citadel later on the very same day. Summer called for celebration, and celebration called for wine, and wine would be held responsible for every mistake made in the throes of revelry that the night brought. In the slums of Flea Bottom the smallfolk took to the streets, but within the Red Keep the revelers liked to think that they were much more dignified, and as such they joined hands in well-rehearsed dances and pretended that the amounts that they were drinking was perfectly healthy. Dornish red and Arbor gold flowed easily into elegant goblets, and as the orange and pink sunset coloured the stones an even more vivid hue, the noise grew gently, until no corner of the Keep was free from a giggling maid or a rowdy drunkard.

King Robert was heard to remark that he thought that everyone within the castle’s walls was celebrating, from the lowliest servant to the usually cool and reserved Queen herself. However, King Robert was quite wrong, for in the depths of the Maidenvault there sat a girl of seventeen, propped against the excessive cushions on her bed with a needle in her fingers and her stitching abandoned beside her. The stitches were broad and messy, much like the girl herself, whose wideset shoulders held wayward strands of hair like wet straw, and the sleeves of a dress that was designed to fit someone with a more feminine figure.

Brienne of Tarth, the tallest girl in all Seven Kingdoms, was the only one left in the Maidenvault that night—even the dour septas had put aside their sermons to attend the festivities—and as such she had expected some much-needed quiet, but she could hear the sounds of people having fun from her chambers, and was almost jealous until she considered the laughs that the sight of her in a dress could inspire in onlookers, and the blunt honesty of people in their cups, and instead contented herself with her self-imposed imprisonment as much as she could.

Her greatest consolation was that Alynne Connington had taken to the celebrations with the utmost enthusiasm. Alynne was most probably a nice girl, but Brienne could not stand her, mostly because she was delicate and pretty and the sister of Ser Ronnet Connington, who had been betrothed to Brienne not a year ago, and who had summarily rejected her upon the occasion of their first meeting. Alynne herself was of an age with Brienne, and almost her height too, and through some unfortunate arrangement between their fathers, it had been decided that the two girls would be guests of the crown for however long it took for them to find husbands.

At that rate, Brienne would live her whole life in the Maidenvault.

She glanced sideways at her needlepoint before standing up slowly, brushing her hair out of her eyes and heading towards the door. She did not have to open it, however, because Alynne Connington chose that precise moment to fling herself into Brienne’s chambers.

“Ah, my dear Brienne! I have such exciting news to give to you!”

“Have the celebrations finally ended?” Brienne asked, allowing herself some optimism despite the clear sounds of drunkards singing.

“No, but King Robert—he has announced that there is to be a tourney to herald the coming of Summer!” Alynne said. “There will be jousting on the morrow, and a mêlée two days hence!”

Brienne noted that Alynne seemed quite excited about this, despite having never shown interest in the sporting of knights previously. “I presume you will be in attendance,” she said, remembering her pleasantries.

“I will,” Alynne said, “and I will give my favour to Ser Loras!”

It was wishful thinking, to be sure—the Knight of the Flowers, only a year younger than Brienne and Alynne, would never cast his eye upon a girl from a knightly house of the Stormlands. In fact, there were rumours that the dashing Ser Loras preferred the company of his own sex, but this had not stopped every young maiden in the Red Keep from becoming utterly enamoured with him.

“I wish you luck with that,” Brienne said, stepping into the corridor and closing the door to her bedroom behind her. “If you will excuse me, Alynne, I wish to take the evening air.”

“Very well,” Alynne said. “You are no fun, Brienne, but I won’t force you into joining the dancing outside. You would only ruin it with your sour face and clumsy feet.” She pulled a face at Brienne, and turned away, skipping back to the festivities.

Brienne took the other exit from the Maidenvault, and skirted the side of the Keep until she came to one of the Keep’s many armouries. It was the one closest to the Maidenvault, and she had visited it once or twice, but there had always been knights there to laugh at her, a girl who presumed to have any knowledge of swordfighting. There was no doubt that it was laughable indeed, but everyone was so busy drinking and dancing that at this time of night, no-one would notice if a young girl built like a man happened to take up a sword and practise her stance, swinging at the training dummies as though her skirts did not impede her.

And yet someone did notice.

After several minutes, Brienne became increasingly unsettled with the feeling that there was a person nearby, watching her. She lowered her sword and turned around, but the scene was the same as when she had arrived. Sighing, she was about to turn back to her practise when out of the corner of her eye she saw the flicker of a shadow. Gripping the sword tightly, she walked purposefully towards where she had seen the motion. She rounded a corner to a small balcony overlooking the city, where there stood a woman dressed all in red.

“You were watching me,” Brienne said, unsure how else to greet this strange figure.

“I was,” the red woman confirmed, turning around to face Brienne. It seemed that her eyes were red too, and her hair, and she spoke with an accent that Brienne, inexperienced as she was, could only place as some sort of foreign.

“Why?”

The red woman smiled. “I take great interest in unusual people, and you seem most unusual indeed, Brienne of Tarth.”

Brienne fought the urge to raise the sword. “How is it that you know my name?”

“Oh, how rude of me,” she said. “I was introduced to you from afar several days ago, by your friend Renly Baratheon, but I have not yet introduced myself! I am Melisandre of Asshai, a Priestess of R’hllor.”

“I have not heard of R’hllor,” Brienne said, the word feeling strange on her tongue.

“He is the only true God,” Melisandre said, “the flame in the darkness. And he will deliver you what you desire, if you put your faith in him.”

“I was raised to put my faith in the Seven,” Brienne said angrily. “I will not so easily change my allegiances to your foreign God!”

Melisandre smiled and bowed her head. “Of course not. And yet, it is my mission to convert the Kingdoms of Westeros to the truest of religions.” She looked up. “What could I possibly do to convince you of his power?”

“You said he would deliver me what I desire,” Brienne said, before she could stop herself. She did not believe in this false idol, she never would, and yet she was inexplicably curious of this woman’s power.

“I did,” Melisandre said, smiling as though this was the answer she had expected, and indeed, that she had wanted. “So Brienne, what is it that you desire?”

“There is a tourney that begins tomorrow,” Brienne said hesitantly. “There will be jousting, and a mêlée. I wish to fight in both.”

“You are certainly capable,” Melisandre said. “You would not need a God’s work to render you able to fight.”

“I have no armour,” Brienne said. “I cannot fight without armour. And nor is this sword mine. I cannot fight with a borrowed sword; surely a knight would notice it missing!”

“I can give you armour, and I can give you a sword,” Melisandre replied, “but you must do something for me first: you must bring me your favourite dress, and you must bring me the sewing needle you find easiest to use, and you must bring them to me at dawn tomorrow. You will meet me here dressed in men’s clothing, with those two items. Will you be able to do this?”

“I will,” Brienne said.

The red Priestess nodded. “Until tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

The sound of revelry was but a dull murmur in Lord Tywin Lannister’s chambers, but it could still be heard, and Lord Tywin’s son found himself wishing that he might join in the celebration. Ser Jaime Lannister had answered his father’s summons, growing tired of his sister’s company for perhaps the first time in his life, but the solar was airless and oppressive, and Jaime longed for the evening breeze and a sword in his hand.

“You are not listening to me,” his father remarked.

“Perhaps not,” Jaime said. “I was not aware you had been talking.”

“I had not spoken yet,” Lord Tywin said with a small smile, “but I will not speak until I can be assured of your attention.”

“You have my attention, father,” Jaime said. “You have everyone’s attention.”

“Very well. You are aware that there has been a tourney announced?”

“I am.”

“And you intend to fight in it.”

“I do,” Jaime said, straightening his posture.

“Yes, I am well aware of that,” Lord Tywin said. “I do not ask your intentions; I am merely confirming them. I need your assurance that this tourney will be your last.”

“My last!” Jaime stood up, pushing the chair away behind him. “You cannot mean it!”

“Sit down, Jaime. You’re being childish.”

With a glance over his shoulder, Jaime sighed and pulled the chair back towards him, lowering himself slowly. “What possible reason could you give me for this tourney being my last? I am not yet too old to fight!”

“No, but you are too old to remain unmarried. You have been too old to remain unmarried for far too long.” Lord Tywin leaned forward, tenting his fingers. “It has been thirteen years since your release from the Kingsguard, and you have proved yourself no more than an accomplished tourney knight. That is not the legacy I wish to leave for the Lannister family. It’s high time for you to give up the Kingslayer mantle and become the future Lord Lannister. You must marry, Jaime, and you must give House Lannister an heir.”

Jaime clenched his fists at the use of the name the smallfolk called him— _Kingslayer_ , all for one deed for the good of the Seven Kingdoms. “Are you saying that—”

“I am saying that after this tourney I will choose a suitable bride for you, the daughter of one of our bannermen, perhaps, and you will return to Casterly Rock and give her a son.”

“You cannot choose a bride for me!” Jaime said. His mind was working quickly behind his words, trying to find an agreeable alternative to this arrangement. He thought of all the women he knew, and he thought of his sister, who he had once wished to marry as the Targaryens had married brother to sister. But he had not loved since she had married the King and spurned his advances as improper for a Queen.

“In that case, I shall present you with several of our bannermen’s daughters, and you will choose the one that pleases you the most.”

Lord Tywin was still smiling, and Jaime could see that this was a fight that he would lose. He sighed. “After the tourney ends, wait a week. Wait a week, and let me choose my own bride. If I fail to do so, you may marry me to whichever bannerman’s daughter you please.”

It was a gamble, but Jaime felt for sure that he would be able to find a more suitable bride than some Western girl in the space of a week. He dare not push for two weeks, let alone a lifetime, for his father would never agree to it. But a small challenge such as this was the kind of thing that kept Lord Tywin alive—ever since he had been replaced as the Hand of the King he had no excitement, and Jaime hoped that this would catch his father’s interest and give him the chance to find a wife for himself, loath as he was to marry.

“One week,” Lord Tywin said, “after the end of the tourney. One week and no longer. Do not make me regret this.”

Of course, Jaime would choose the woman most likely to anger his father and ensure that he’d never be given such forceful advice again. But he kept this to himself and smiled coolly.

“You needn’t worry, father. I will choose wisely.”

 

* * *

 

The morning of the tourney announced itself with much fanfare. No doubt the trumpets could be heard even in the depths of the Maidenvault, but Brienne of Tarth was not there to hear them. Instead, she hurried to the armoury, herself only armoured in the most basic men's clothing, holding a faded blue dress and a sewing needle to her chest. It had been hard to choose the needle with which she sewed with the greatest ease, for there was nothing she found so taxing as needlepoint, but in the end she had picked the largest, one with a loop for thread that did not resist her thick and clumsy fingers.

The red Priestess was already there, waiting with a patient smile on her face. "Your dress is quite worn," she remarked, glancing with what might have been disapproval at the garment.

"It is my oldest that still fits," Brienne admitted.

"But it is your favourite," Melisandre said, "and that is what matters for my spell."

"Your spell?"

Without asking, Melisandre took the dress and the needle from Brienne.  She whispered words in a foreign tongue and the objects in her hands began to transform. Brienne watched with her mouth hanging open as the brocade of her dress became the detailed edges of plate armour, faced blue as her dress had been. It separated into a breastplate and a helmet, greaves and epaulettes, all in a steely blue metal, rent with scratches as though the armour had seen many fights already. The needle grew in length and thickness, sharpening itself to a long, pointed lance, painted in twining ribbons of blue and rose, the colours of Tarth.

The armour and the lance lay at Melisandre's feet.

"Take it," she said. "Wear it proudly, for it is yours."

After several seconds of reverent starting, Brienne began to fasten the pieces of armour onto her body, one by one.

"There is one problem," Melisandre said. "You must be well away from the tourney crowd by midnight, for your armour will return to being a dress, and your lance a needle. If you leave them behind, you will likely never see them again."

Brienne was confused, but she thought better of questioning the magic that had enabled her to become a knight, if only for one tourney. "And tomorrow, for the mêlée..."

"Tomorrow, I will give you armour and a sword. First, you must fight today."

It was an uncomfortable walk to the jousting grounds in full armour and carrying a lance. When Brienne arrived at the area where the knights were gathering, she was met immediately by a steward.

"Ser," he said, "where is your horse?"

She coughed, preparing to deepen her voice. "I am a mystery knight," she said, although she doubted that real mystery knights ever announced themselves as such. "I have no horse."

The steward chuckled. "Never come upon a mystery knight with no horse before," he said. "Ah well, it was bound to happen someday. Follow me; I'll get you the best spare mare I can find."

True to his word, the steward was able to find Brienne a fine brown mare—perhaps not the most reliable horse, but she would suit well enough for the joust.

"One last thing," the steward said, "before you go to the lines—what do you call yourself?"

Brienne cast her eyes down, through the visor of her helmet, over the faded armour that so resembled her old dress. "The Blue Knight," she said.

"Bit of a boring name for a mystery knight," the steward mumbled, but nonetheless he gave her a nod and directed her towards the lines where the knights were waiting to begin the joust.

As the Blue Knight was an unknown mystery knight, no young ladies approached him to give him their favour. It was just as well, thought the girl under the armour, for she would not have known what to do with such a token. Many young girls approached the Knight of the Flowers, including the optimistic Alynne Connington. But Brienne did not see whose favour he took, because the Blue Knight was called up to joust against him.

 

* * *

 

Jaime had not heard of the Blue Knight, but the moment he saw the man mount his horse, he knew that this was no match for Ser Loras. They tended to pit the mystery knights against crowd favourites early on, either to get them out of the way quickly when they failed or to establish loyalty in the unlikelihood that they succeeded.

The Blue Knight would fail. Everything about his movement was uncertain, from the way he balanced his lance to the way he adjusted his helm before the charge. His mare was good enough, but the mare did not make the knight, and if he were the betting sort, Jaime would have staked his inheritance on Ser Loras.

It was good that he did not.

By pure chance, when the Blue Knight charged, his lance slipped from his control and was aimed squarely between the eyes of Ser Loras' horse. The horse bucked, throwing its rider asunder, and a great jeer flew up from the crowd.

“Unbelievable,” whispered a knight by Ser Jaime’s side, and he was inclined to agree. While he could not be angry with this pretender for disposing of his own greatest adversary in the tourney, it still rang false with him, that a newcomer should have such luck.

The Blue Knight seemed shocked by his own victory. He dismounted jerkily and, when approached by a steward to have his helmet removed, he refused, wishing no doubt to maintain the air of mystery despite his win. He led his horse away from the crowd, perhaps to prepare for his next tilt. Taken by a sudden impulse, Jaime followed him.

It was a considerable distance away from the tilt yard when he caught up to the Blue Knight. “You must have the Warrior on your side,” he said, “for that win was no deed of your skill.”

“I am duly ashamed of my ineptitude,” the Blue Knight said.

Jaime had not expected anything of the mystery knight’s voice, but he was nonetheless taken aback by its youthful quality. This large knight could be no more than a lowly squire. “Tell me, where are you from?” he asked.

The knight paused. “The Stormlands,” he said.

“Ah,” Jaime said. “You do not wish to tell me. A _mystery_ knight indeed. Your armour may be blue,” he continued, “but you are still green. If you have come here with great dreams of glory, you would do well to forget them. You will not be the next Ser Loras, and you do not deserve to fight amongst real knights.”

The Blue Knight stepped back as though Jaime had struck him. “I will show you what I deserve,” he said, his young voice taking on a darker tone. “I may not joust as well as yourself or the Knight of the Flowers, but I will show you my strength in the mêlée tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it,” Jaime said with a laugh.

He turned his back on the Blue Knight and walked back to the yard—there was no use in wasting his time talking to the boy; he ought instead to prepare for his own tilts.

Predictably, he won his first three, but amazingly, the Blue Knight went on to win his next two. It seemed that since his conversation with Jaime he had acquired an extraordinary determination. His height and build gave him an advantage, but there was more than that. He jousted like he _needed_ to win.

Jaime decided to make sure that he didn’t.

They had each tilted thrice before they came up against each other. Jaime mounted his mare to great cheers from the crowd, but he heard a few voices calling out for the Blue Knight. It was almost embarrassing how quickly the lesser nobility would change their allegiance for an exciting newcomer with his visor down. But it made no matter—Ser Jaime would win, because he always won, and then they would be cheering for him again. It was his last tourney, and he intended to leave it victorious.

His tilt with the Blue Knight was reassuringly quick. He unhorsed the tall man in one charge, with a simple thrust of his lance into his shoulder. The shouting and cheering was enough to distract him from any thoughts of his opponent. He didn’t look back to watch the Blue Knight stalk away in defeat; the adulation of victory was enough.

 

* * *

 

“I did not win,” Brienne said to Melisandre. She had slept fitfully, her aching shoulder preventing her from any proper quiescence, and she had been unable to shake her disappointment at being defeated, even after her unexpected win against Ser Loras. But more than anything, the famous Kingslayer’s words had stung her—they made the pain in her shoulder no more than a quiet throbbing. The fact that she had lost to such an unlikeable man felt like a wound to her honour.

“You lost to the man who won the jousting,” Melisandre said. “There is no shame in that.”

Brienne sighed, and the Priestess looked down at the armour and the sword between their feet. “Are you not going to take up your sword?”

“I am not sure if I am worthy of this fight,” Brienne admitted. “I am not even a knight.”

“You are the Blue Knight,” Melisandre said. “I am as sure of your victory today as I am of my faith in R’hllor. Pick up the sword.”

Brienne did as instructed, and bent down to grasp the hilt of the sword. It was a one-handed sword with a gleaming dark blade, with shades of red running through it, and a well-wrought hilt, sized perfectly for her hand. When she lifted it, it was unexpectedly light, and her breath caught in her throat when she realised—

“This is Valyrian steel!”

Melisandre nodded. “You will do well with such a fine sword. Most knights will fight with a flail or a mace, hoping to gain ground by swinging them around blindly, but you must be more graceful, and more calculated. This sword is light enough to allow you more fluid movement.”

“What do you know of swordfighting?” Brienne asked, her lack of tact allowing her to be so forthright. But thankfully, Melisandre did not take it as a slight, and simply smiled.

“More than you would expect,” she said.

Brienne left the small space behind the armoury as a young girl of the Stormlands, and arrived at the mêlée grounds as the Blue Knight. The same steward as had met her yesterday was waiting by her mare, and she thanked him graciously. She said a quiet prayer to the Seven and rode to the tourney grounds.

She had never fought in a mêlée before—her only experience with the sword and the lance had been at Evenfall Hall, her home on the Isle of Tarth. Her father had allowed her to learn, despite the fact that it was not proper for a young lady, and her master at arms Ser Goodwin had been the best teacher she could have hoped for. He had taught her to play to her strengths and to use her endurance to her advantage against hasty opponents.

Now, instead of wooden training dummies, her opponents were a swarm of real, experience knights. They sat horseback, milling about before her, and all of a sudden she felt terrified to face them.

But the Kingslayer’s words still cut deep into her skin: “ _you do not deserve to fight amongst real knights_ ”. She would show him that she was a real knight. She would prove her worth.

The mêlée was more than she could ever have expected, with herself and her horse thrown amongst a crowd of sweat and metal. She narrowly avoided being cast down by a vicious man with a flail, and dodged a flying morningstar from a dehorsed knight, before she struck the wielder with the flat of her sword and sent him toppling. Her blood sang with a perverse exhilaration as he hit the ground, knowing that she was one knight closer to victory.

She struck two more in quick succession before she noticed the Kingslayer facing off against the Knight of the Flowers in the periphery of her vision.

 _It is a distraction_ , she told herself. _Keep fighting_.

A knight wearing green-painted armour came charging towards her, and she steered her horse around and aimed her sword at his side.

 

* * *

 

It seemed that after his graceless defeat in the previous day’s jousting, the Knight of Flowers had lost some of his confidence, for it seemed almost too easy to dislodge him from his horse and cut him out of the mêlée. Jaime felt a vague ringing in his ears from where Ser Loras’ sword had hit his helmet, but with his skin tingling with the thrill of the fight, he hardly noticed it.

He turned to see the Blue Knight swinging his sword at a man in green armour, and was forced to admit to himself that the bulky young man was not as poor a swordsman as he had expected. He controlled his horse well, and handled his sword as though it were an extension of his arm. The blade glinted red in the sunlight, and Jaime recognised it as Valyrian steel, or at least a good replica thereof.

_Now, where would a squire from the Stormlands get such a good sword?_

There was no time to ponder the question as an ambitious knight charged towards him, and Jaime laughed at his brazen attack, knocking him to the dirt almost immediately.

The day wore on, and the participants in the mêlée began to dwindle. By the early evening, it was only himself and a handful of other knights—including, he noticed with some alarm—the Blue Knight. He did not seem to have tired at all, and fought steadily and strongly.

Jaime’s strange feeling that the mêlée would end with the two of them in close combat was confirmed when he drove Ser Meryn Trant to the ground with a gash in his leg, and looked up only to see the Blue Knight riding towards him.

“Just us, mystery knight!” he called out, but the Blue Knight just grunted in response and swung his sword at Jaime. Jaime parried quickly, and felt the distinctive sensation of a Valyrian blade clashing against his own. He felt oddly jealous of this squire and his sword, and that only made him more determined to win this fight.

The Blue Knight struck a blow that missed him but glanced against his mare’s flank, and Jaime realised with some alarm that he would have to dismount to continue the fight. Rather than face disgrace by being pushed to the ground, he launched himself off and landed on his feet, knees bent and sword extended. The Blue Knight also dismounted. He’d had the upper ground, but he had chosen the honourable path to a fair fight—so not only was he a green boy, but he was a green boy with a sense of honour. Jaime almost felt sorry for him.

The sympathy didn’t last for long, however, as he and the Blue Knight traded fast blows. Jaime could feel himself gaining the upper hand, and between blows, he kicked the Blue Knight in the shin and sent him falling backwards, landing with a clang on the dusty ground.

He was deaf to the shouting of the audience as he knelt forward and straddled the Blue Knight, pressing his blade sideways against the boy’s neck.

“Yield,” he said.

The Blue Knight twisted and writhed beneath him. “No,” he said.

Jaime was struck again by just how young he sounded, but there was something else in that voice. The Blue Knight did not sound like a boy anymore, pinned down with a sword at his neck. He sounded like—well, he sounded like a girl. Jaime furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and, with his spare hand, flicked open the visor of the boy—no, the _girl_ —before him.

There was no mistaking that the sapphire blue eyes of the false knight belonged to a woman.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, wench,” he said, “but if you yield now—”

“I am not _playing_ at anything,” the girl hissed, “and I will _not_ yield!”

Jaime barely knew what was happening as her knee lifted and made contact with the plate armour between his legs, knocking him backwards. The Blue Knight stood up and swung his— _her_ —sword, and Jaime barely had time to react, jumping to his feet despite the pain and blocking the blow with a sloppy swing of his blade.

They fought at close quarters, her visor pulled back down, but Jaime recognised that he was tiring. She seemed not to tire—no wonder, given her size—and his blows were getting slower. She closed in on him and, as he had done, forced him to the ground with a kick. She followed this by shoving him in the chest and placing her blade across his throat.

“Yield,” she said, panting, but he could swear that she was smiling beneath that helmet.

He was well and truly pinned, but there was no way he would yield to some wench with a swo—

A woman who could fight skillfully with a fine blade. A woman who knew how to handle a lance and could hold her ground on horseback. A _woman_.

“I yield,” he said, with a grin on his face and a plan forming in his mind. “Oh, do I yield!”

 

* * *

 

Brienne of Tarth, the Blue Knight, stood before the King and Queen with her head held high and her visor pulled down low. It was slowly becoming more and more real that she had been victorious—that she had won the mêlée, just as Melisandre had said she would—and that there were crowds of people watching, cheering her name. Well, cheering for the Blue Knight.

By her side stood her vanquished opponent, Ser Jaime Lannister. As he had won the jousting, they were by rights both victors of this tourney, and would presumably both reap the spoils.

“You may each name your Queen of Love and Beauty,” the King told them. “Blue Knight?”

Brienne bowed her head. She had spent the last five minutes rehearsing the most appropriate answer in her mind: “There is but one Queen that I kneel before, your Grace. I would not name another.”

Queen Cersei looked pleased with this response, but the Kingslayer made a noise of protest.

“Who would you name, dear brother?” the Queen asked him.

“I would name your daughter, the Princess Myrcella Baratheon, who will no doubt grow to be as beautiful as her mother.”

Brienne noted the elegance and formalism of his speech, which she desperately lacked, but also a slight bitterness that she wondered if perhaps she was imagining. She bit her lip. It would not do to think too hard about the Kingslayer.

They were both shortly presented with their rewards, and invited to dine with the King and Queen at the high table.

“Come, Blue Knight,” the Kingslayer said, “you must remove your helmet if we are to dine.”

But Brienne noticed the sun hanging low in the sky, and realised with a start that it was drawing near midnight—she would have to flee before then, lest her identity be revealed.

“I cannot,” she said, offering her apologies to the King and Queen.

As she ran from the tourney grounds, leaving her horse behind, she heard the King laugh. “A true mystery knight,” he said.

That night, when her armour had turned back into a dress, and her Valyrian steel sword a needle, she once again found it hard to sleep. She had fought for most of the hours of the day, and she had won. Her greatest desire had been granted by Melisandre—or by Melisandre’s God—she did not know which, but she said a prayer of thanks to the Seven nonetheless.

It was as though she had just finished her prayer when she was awoken by a furious knocking on her bedroom door. She jumped up immediately—of course, since she had been so tired, she would have slept far too late…

After quickly making herself decent, she opened the door to see Alynne Connington bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. “You will not believe what has happened!”

“Will I not?” Brienne asked, rubbing at the corner of her eye.

“You will not! The Kingsl—Ser Jaime Lannister is looking for a bride!” Alynne said.

“That is of no concern to me,” Brienne said, remembering with uncomfortable clarity the manner in which he had yielded to her the previous day.

Alynne shook her head. “Of course not; he would never choose you. But you must help me! His father is forcing him to choose a bride within the week, but he is rumoured to have said that he will only marry the woman who can beat him in a swordfight. You must teach me to fight!”

Brienne raised her eyebrows. “What time is it?”

“Midday,” Alynne said. “You must have stayed awake very late last night.”

“I did,” Brienne confessed. “So I am very tired, and I don’t think I can teach you to wield a sword at this hour.”

“But you learnt on Tarth, did you not? _Please_ , Brienne!”

“Even if I taught you, you would never be good enough to defeat the Kingslayer,” Brienne said.

Alynne frowned. “Perhaps you are right. But he will go easy on me, will he not, since I am a woman?”

When Ser Jaime had lifted her visor in their fight, Brienne had known that he realised she was a woman. She had wondered— _did_ he go easy on her?

“I very much doubt it,” she said.

“I hear he is seeking out all the women in the Red Keep,” Alynne said, changing the subject abruptly. “When do you think he will make it to the Maidenvault?”

As if in answer to her question, a Septa appeared from around the corner, running towards them. “Ser Jaime Lannister is here,” she said, her eyes wide, “seeking a _bride_!”

“You stay here,” Alynne ordered, shoving Brienne back inside her bedroom and pushing the door shut.

It didn’t matter. Brienne didn’t want to marry him anyway.

 

* * *

 

“Ser Jaime,” one of the Septas said, “a _bride_?”

He gave her an amused smile. One of the Septas had gone running off, no doubt to inform all the girls in the Maidenvault of his quest. “Yes, a bride,” he confirmed, “but not just any bride. I am seeking a tall woman with blue eyes who can beat me in a swordfight.”

 

“That is rather specific,” the Septa said, “although there is one girl—”

“Yes, there is!” cried a voice. A tall redheaded girl came bounding into view, pushing past the Septas. “I am tall and I have blue eyes...”

“Indeed,” Jaime said. “And you propose to beat me in a swordfight?”

“I do!” she said.

“Do you have a sword?”

The girl’s face fell. “I do not.”

“It makes no matter,” Jaime said. “There is an armoury nearby; you may choose one from there.”

He knew it was not her, not the Blue Knight. Her voice was wrong, and her build was too slender, despite her height, and she did not have a Valyrian steel sword. Still, he would humour her, allow her to swing a sword at him, and then inform her that she wasn’t the wench he was looking for.

They were followed by several anxious Septas to the armoury, and he could have sworn he saw the shadow of someone moving behind the swords, but he said nothing.

“What is your name, child?” he asked the girl.

“I am Alynne of House Connington,” she proclaimed, “and I am no child! I am seventeen years of age.”

“I was seventeen when I killed the King,” he mused. “Do you think you can do better than that?”

“Give me a sword, and I’ll show you,” she said.

Jaime grabbed a sword and threw it at her. If she were the Blue Knight, she would’ve caught it by the hilt. As it was, she did not, and it clattered to the ground at her feet. She bent over to pick it up, stubborn and determined, but it was too much of a farce for Jaime’s liking.

“Enough,” he said. “You cannot even hold it properly. You are not the maid I seek.”

Alynne’s face fell. “But I—”

“Leave it, Alynne,” one of the Septas said. “Did you see where Brienne went? I checked her bedroom—”

“Brienne is not here and I don’t know where she is,” Alynne snapped, pushing past the Septas and back towards the Maidenvault. The Septas followed her, whispering amongst themselves, leaving Jaime standing alone in the armoury.

“Brienne,” he said aloud. That was the name the Septas had said. Could it be that there was a tall maid with a blade and bright blue eyes living in the Maidenvault?

A rustling of the cloth that hung behind the swords told him that his earlier perception had been right, and he turned on the wall where the swords were hanging, with his blade outstretched.

“Brienne,” he said again, finding that he liked the sound of her name on his tongue, “I know you are there.”

“Do you?” said the voice of the Blue Knight from behind him.

He spun around. “Clever. A good swordswench should always know when to sneak up on her opponent.”

She wasn’t exactly the prettiest girl in all of Westeros, but he had hardly expected it from a girl his own height. She had thick limbs and thick shoulders, and a broad, freckled face with two astonishing blue eyes that he would never have been able to forget. “Ah,” he said, “it seems I have found the Blue Knight. But where is your sword?”

“I borrowed it,” she said.

“A pity,” Jaime said jokingly, “I was hoping to marry into a family with a Valyrian steel sword at their disposal.”

“I have not come here to take you up on your offer,” she said.

“Have you not?” he asked. “You seem ready to fight. And you must know, I’m looking to marry a woman who can beat me in—”

“Yes, I heard,” she said quickly. “Yet you were so rude to the Blue Knight—to me. And I have heard tell that you are a dishonourable man. Why should I even consider your offer, _Kingslayer_?”

“Because, _wench_ ,” he said, “you did not let me finish. I am looking to marry a woman who can beat me in close quarters combat. I am looking for a tall woman with blue eyes, the blue eyes that I saw through the visor of a knight.”

“A knight,” Brienne echoed.

“And if you marry me, I will fight you every day,” he said.

Brienne scowled at him. “I will fight you every day for a week,” she said. “That is how long your father is giving you, from what I have heard, is it not?”

“It is,” Jaime said.

“Then I will fight you every day for a week.”

“And you will consider my offer?” he asked.

She jerked her head in an awkward nod, and then smiled, her blue eyes sparkling. “Only if you can beat me in a swordfight.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a review; it would absolutely make my day! Let me know what you thought :D
> 
> (No hating on Alynne though! She's only 17 and she has no idea what she's doing. Besides, what would you expect from Ser Ronnet's little sister? [Yes, she is a canon character. As far as I know this is the first fic on AO3 that features here. Yay!])


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